Tight Spaces
by nhsweetcherry
Summary: The brothers getting in - and out of - tight spaces. Claustrophobic, anyone?
1. Intro

_I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

Scott winced as his foot came down on something with a loud, prolonged _crunch_. He glanced downward and grimaced – he'd just killed some poor kid's science project. Lifting his foot, he squinted at the object, trying to figure out what it had once been.

"You squashed my Bird!" Virgil exclaimed indignantly, peering over his shoulder at the mangled, green object on the floor.

"Oh, is _that_ what that's supposed to be?" Scott said. He turned his head a little, and then he could – kind of – see the rounded shape of Thunderbird Two in the flattened papier-mâché figurine. "Well, sorry, Virg. I didn't see it there." He snickered. "I have to say, that's not a problem I usually have with your ship."

Virgil didn't answer. He had moved a few feet away and was bending over to pick something up. Virgil's face lit up with unholy glee as he looked over the weird conglomeration of a paper towel tube, aluminum foil, and bright paint. "Well, well, well," he said. "I may just get a chance for payback."

"Wait," Scott said slowly. "Is that supposed to be…"

Virgil's grin widened. "Yes, indeed. Scott, say hello to Thunderbird One." He pointed to the clumsily lettered "TB-1" on the cardboard tailfins. "She's a real beaut!"

Scott grimaced. "Uh, yeah, sure…"

He and Virgil were picking their way through the hallways of an earthquake-damaged school. They had already evacuated several people, and were making a final loop of the building to make sure they hadn't missed anyone.

"C'mon, we better keep moving," Scott started to say – and then he froze, listening. "Hang on, is that…"

"Aftershock!" John's voice bursting through his comm. system confirmed Scott's suspicions. "Get to safety!"

As the ceiling began to creak and groan above them, Scott snapped, "Quick, in here!" He flung open a door and shoved Virgil inside, leaping in after him.

A tremendous roar sounded as the hall ceiling collapsed; Scott jerked the door shut just in time, plunging the two of them into pitch darkness.

He kept his hand on the doorknob for a long moment, listening to the debris crashing down in the hallway and waiting for the vibrations under his feet to subside.

After a moment, everything quieted down, and Scott breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, let's see how bad it is," he muttered. He turned the knob and pushed – and nothing happened.

"What's wrong?" Virgil asked, his voice wafting from the darkness – and sounding strangely low to the ground.

"It's stuck," Scott said. He tried again, this time putting more of his shoulder into it. Finally, he tried taking a step back and then lunging at the door with all of his weight. All that gained him was a sore shoulder, though. "Nope, the debris must have pinned the door shut. We can't get out." He glanced around, but it was so dark that he couldn't see a thing. "Where are we, anyway? I figured this was a classroom, but surely it would have windows?"

There was a crackling sound as Virgil broke open a glow stick.

Scott blinked as he looked around – they were in a tiny janitor's closet, sharing the small space with a multitude of brooms, mops, dusters, buckets and cleaning supplies. Now that he knew where he was, Scott could identify a smell he'd been noticing – wet mop.

He glanced down at Virgil and immediately had to put a hand over his mouth to hide a smile – his younger brother was sitting wedged half in a large bucket, and he did not look happy. He must have fallen into the bucket when Scott had shoved him into the closet.

"Yes, this is very funny," Virgil said testily. "Give me a hand, will you?"

Scott pulled Virgil upright and brushed him off solicitously, all while fighting back a laugh that was trying its best to escape.

Virgil swatted his hands away and reached down to turn the bucket upside down, then sat on it with a sigh. "Okay, so, now what? How do we get out of here if we can't open the door?"

Scott frowned, his humor evaporating as he thought through various options. "I guess we'll have to call John. Maybe he can look at the layout of the building and see if we can punch through one of these walls or something."

John sounded distracted when they called him, though. "Give me a few minutes," he snapped. "Gordon and Alan need me. I'll try to send them over to help you out at some point, but it could be a little while."

"FAB," Scott said with a sigh. He pulled up his own bucket and dropped down onto it. "Well, then…"

They sat in silence for a couple minutes. They had to keep their elbows close in to their sides, and there was no room for them to stretch their legs out in front of them.

Suddenly Virgil started to laugh.

Scott glanced at him in alarm, wondering if the fumes from the cleaning products were getting to him.

"Sorry," Virgil said after a moment. "This is just so ridiculous! International Rescue needs to be rescued…from a broom closet! Actually, this reminds me of some of the other tight spaces we've been in."

"Hmm, yeah," Scott agreed. "You remember when…"


	2. Tunnel

_This is an expansion of an event mentioned in "The Logbook," and it is also based on real life. My two younger brothers dug a tunnel in our back yard several years ago, and I lived in terror that it would collapse on them. It never did, but they eventually abandoned it when alarming fuzzy white stuff began growing all over the walls and ceiling…_

Tunnel

"I can't believe Scott and Virgil haven't caught us yet," Alan said, setting aside his shovel and passing two full buckets of dirt to Gordon.

Gordon grunted as he accepted the buckets. "Well, now there's no way Scotty'll catch us, since he's in a cast." He trudged toward the distant splash of light at the end of the tunnel. "I kind of feel sorry for Virg, though," he called over his shoulder. "Being stuck with a bored Scott doesn't look like much fun."

He climbed up out of the tunnel, blinking in the sunshine, and dumped his buckets into a nearby ravine. It had been hard to find a good spot for their tunnel – much of the island was too criss-crossed with tree roots to be practical for digging. They had eventually stumbled across a small clearing with fairly loose soil, though.

He carefully stepped back down into the tunnel and crouched to enter the opening in the rich, dark soil. Once he was inside, he could stand up straight, though – working for the past month, he and Alan had managed to excavate a tunnel that was tall enough for them to stand up in, and was about twelve feet long. They were just starting to turn a corner that would eventually open up into the ravine, so that they would have two entrances.

He followed the sound of digging, and sighed as he saw that Alan already had another two buckets ready for him. The removal of dirt had been much easier when the tunnel had been shorter.

"Almost ready to switch?" he asked hopefully. Shoveling was hard work too, but easier than hauling the buckets.

"Nah, I'm good for a while yet," Alan said, entirely missing the suggestion behind Gordon's words. He straightened and wiped the sweat off his face, leaving a long smear of dirt across his forehead. "How much farther do we have to go before we break through?"

"Mmm, I'd guess about ten feet," Gordon said. "What do you think about building a bridge across the ravine once we make it through?"

Alan's face lit up, but fell just as quickly. "Well, that'd be cool, but you know what Scott said – I'm not allowed to touch a hammer any more – or wood, or nails, or screws, or saws…well, you get the picture. Stupid Tree House."

"Oh, yeah," Gordon agreed. "Well, maybe it can be a simple rope bridge, then." He picked up the buckets and took a step toward the entrance, but then Alan grabbed the back of his shirt and jerked him backwards. "What–?" Gordon started to say.

A rumbling of earth interrupted him, and he watched in horror as the entire ceiling of the tunnel began to crumble. "Get back, get back!" he shouted, pushing Alan as far into the tunnel as he could.

Rocks and dirt pelted them as they stumbled toward the back of the tunnel, bogging down their steps and blinding them. Then they both fell and couldn't get any purchase to stand back up, so they huddled low and waited for it to stop.

They were both half buried when things stopped falling on them. Gordon slowly sat up, spitting out dirt and groaning as little aches and pains flared up all over his body. Their electric lantern was mostly buried; he could barely see the outline of Alan's prone form a couple feet away. "You okay, Al?" he asked, his voice muffled by the thick dirt walls all around them.

Alan sucked in a sharp breath as he pushed himself up. "Yeah, I think so. I'm gonna have some bruises, though!"

Gordon reached over to the light and dug around until he could pull it free. "Let's see how much this has set us back," he muttered. He turned around – and gulped. "Oh."

"Uh…" Alan said. "Hmm. Well, yes, that is a bit of a setback."

The tunnel had completely collapsed, leaving them facing a solid, six-foot tall wall of dirt and stone.

Gordon glanced around and shivered as he realized that he and Alan were stuck in a tiny space about three feet long, four feet wide and five feet tall. He wondered how long their air would hold out. "Okay, so, uh, do you remember how far it is to the surface? You think we can dig our way up?"

Alan looked skeptical. "Well, I don't know. We've been angling the tunnel downhill so we could hit the ravine wall right between those two boulders, so we're probably about ten feet underground right now, meaning that there's five to six feet of dirt overhead. So one of us would have to stand on the other's shoulders by the time we got close to the surface."

"We can't keep digging sideways, either," Gordon said quietly. "We'd run out of air first."

Gordon winced as he saw Alan's eyes widen. Not much scared his little brother, but he could see a bit of fear cloud those blue eyes as the danger of their predicament began to sink in.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, unconsciously shifting so that they were closer together, trying to think of some way out of the trouble they'd gotten themselves into.

Finally Gordon let out a long, resigned sigh. "We're gonna have to call for help," he said decisively.

Alan nodded. "I was thinking the same thing." He laughed. "But I'm glad you said it first."

Gordon reached for the communicator he'd clipped to his belt in case they were needed for a rescue – especially important since Scott had been down and out for a few weeks. His hand came up empty, though, and he gasped. "Oh no – my communicator! Where is it?"

They searched frantically, pawing through the loose dirt on the floor.

"Yes!" Alan held up the communicator after a minute's search.

Gordon breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, this thing had better still work," he muttered. He held it up to his mouth. "Virgil, come in please."

He waited, but there was only silence.

"Come in, Virgil. This is Gordon. Alan and I need help."

Still nothing. He exchanged a concerned glance with Alan.

"Maybe it's all the dirt in the way," Alan said softly. "Hey, I have an idea." He held out his hand.

Gordon shrugged and handed him the small radio.

And at that moment, their light flickered and died.

For one second, there was absolute silence and absolute darkness in their little hole, and Gordon felt his skin crawling with an odd, unexplainable terror. He blinked rapidly, but there was no change; he couldn't even see his hand in front of his face. He tried to take a breath, but couldn't seem to pull in any air.

Then Alan gulped and spoke up, his voice quavering slightly as he said, "Thunderbird Five, please come in."

"Alan?" John's voice responded promptly. "What's up? Where are you calling from?"

And suddenly Gordon could breathe again.

"John," Alan exclaimed. "We need help! There was a cave-in, and Gordon and I are stuck, and we're going to run out of air, and–"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" John said. "Calm down, Alan! Now, take a deep breath and start over, okay? Where was there a cave-in? Aren't you guys at _home_?"

"We were digging a tunnel," Alan explained. "It's about ten or twelve feet long, and it was going great until the ceiling just collapsed."

John snorted. "Right. And, uh, just how _deep_ is this tunnel?"

"Probably about ten feet," Alan said in a small voice.

There was a long silence from the other end of the line, and Gordon could picture John pinching the bridge of his nose, like he always did when he was getting a headache. "Great," he said sarcastically after a minute. "Well, I guess Virgil will be happy to finally figure out what you two have been up to…" He sighed. "All right, hang on. I'm calling Virgil now. Don't go anywhere."

"Ha, ha," Alan replied.

The silence crowded around them again and the blackness sat like a weight on Gordon's shoulders. He jumped when Alan spoke.

"Figures that the light would go out, huh?" Alan sighed. He shifted so that he was huddled up against Gordon's side.

Gordon automatically draped an arm around his little brother, wincing as the movement reminded him that he was sore and bruised. Somehow the pain didn't seem as important compared to the possibility that they might suffocate before Virgil could get to them, though. "I wonder if he'll use the Mole."

"Nah," Alan said. "Too risky. We're in such a small space that he won't want to chance it. I think he'll dig from the top."

Gordon winced. "That'll take a while. Maybe we can dig from our end too. Or, hey, maybe he can drill down and feed an oxygen tube through the hole!"

"Yeah, that's a good idea," Alan agreed.

John's voice broke into their little space again at that moment. "Alan, come in," he said.

"We're here," Alan replied.

"Okay, so Virgil's on his way," John said. "I'm going to try to patch you through to him now."

"Okay, thanks!" Alan said.

"No problem," John sighed. "That's what I'm here for – helping people who got themselves into crazy messes."

He cut the connection before they could reply.

A second later, Virgil's voice came over the line. "A tunnel?" he demanded. " _That's_ what you two lunatics have been doing this whole time?" He sounded slightly out of breath, as if he'd been hurrying.

Gordon grabbed the radio. "Hey, it's a _nice_ tunnel!" he retorted.

"Um, nice tunnels don't collapse on people," Virgil said dryly. "Oh, okay, I see…hmm, this could be interesting."

"What?" Gordon asked. "What's interesting?"

"Well…the first few feet of your tunnel have totally collapsed. But after that, there's a big rock shelf, and it looks like you somehow managed to dig under it. That's probably why you guys have a little pocket down there that didn't collapse – you've got a slab of stone over you. But that's also going to make it a bit challenging to get to you. How's the air situation?"

"Well, it's okay so far, but it's kind of a small space down here," Gordon said. "Can you get us an O2 line somehow?"

"Mmm, maybe," Virgil said. "I'm going to call Scott to help; he can bring one."

"Scott?" Gordon repeated. "But he's hurt!"

"Eh, it's his ankle that's broken, not his arms – he can help me dig," Virgil said. "Besides, this way I'll be able to keep an eye on him, and he'll be happy because he'll be doing something useful. Win-win."

Virgil went to work, digging in at an angle just below the rock shelf, following the old route of the tunnel, but a bit closer to the surface.

At Virgil's advice, Gordon and Alan didn't try to help; they just lay back and kept their breathing calm, trying not to use up the air too quickly. Their little space was starting to warm up a tiny bit, Gordon noticed.

A few minutes later, Scott arrived, and Gordon soon heard two shovels chipping away instead of just one.

Gordon didn't even realize that he had fallen asleep until suddenly Scott's voice was shouting in his ear, the volume enough to make the little radio crackle. "Gordon! Alan! Come in!"

Gordon roused himself and felt around for the radio. "Gordon here," he said drowsily. Why was he so warm and sleepy?

Scott let out a relieved sigh. "Thank goodness. You weren't answering, and we thought – well, anyway, how's the air in there? You guys need us to feed you that O2 line?"

"Um," Gordon said. He sucked in an experimental breath. "I dunno." He couldn't seem to concentrate, and he felt his eyelids drooping shut again. "I'm going back to sleep," he murmured.

He heard Virgil mutter, "Well, I guess that answers that."

He had almost drifted off again when the annoying whine of a drill sounded nearby, and then something was showering dirt all over him. He spluttered and turned away. A scuffling sound followed that, then a strange, low hiss.

And then, suddenly, he began to feel more awake than sleepy, and he could hear Alan stirring next to him too.

"What happened?" Alan murmured.

"Gordon? Alan?" Scott asked anxiously.

"Yeah, we're okay," Gordon replied. "Thanks for the air. That was closer than I had realized."

"Well, I think we're almost through now," Virgil said. He sounded tired. "You guys want to start digging a little on your end?"

"FAB," Gordon said.

They couldn't find their shovel, so they used their hands to pull the loose dirt down into their space, pushing it as far back as possible. Scott and Virgil sounded close now, and just a couple minutes later, the tip of a shovel burst through, flinging dirt into Alan's face and casting a dim beam of light into the tunnel.

Alan fell back, spluttering, while Gordon grinned and rushed forward, hollering, "You're through!"

Gordon quickly dug away at the opening, nearly getting his fingers clipped by the shovels occasionally as Scott and Virgil worked from the other side. After a minute, Alan crowded up next to him and helped.

Soon they had an opening a couple feet wide, and Gordon called a halt. "Hey, I think we can climb up through now."

The shovels stopped. "All right, give it a try," Scott called, his voice sounding muffled.

Gordon grabbed Alan and shoved him up into the hole, watching as hands from above pulled him through. Alan wiggled through the opening and disappeared from sight.

After a moment, Virgil's big hands appeared in the opening. "All right, Gords, you're next," he said.

Gordon reached up and grabbed his brother's hands, and seconds later, he found himself in the outer part of the tunnel. It was a low space under the rock shelf; he had to stay crouched down.

Scott and Alan were already climbing out into the sunshine at the far end.

Virgil looked down at Gordon. He was very dirty and sweaty, and he looked tired, but he grinned and slapped Gordon on the back. "Ready to be back out in the fresh air?" he asked.

"Oh, you have no idea," Gordon said fervently.

They had to move in a sort of crouching walk for a few feet before they could straighten up; Gordon flinched when the full force of the sun hit his face.

As his eyes adjusted, he glanced around, appreciating the rich greens and browns of the jungle far more than he ever had before.

"There's so much more space to move around up here!" he said happily.

Alan grinned at him. "Think you're going to have claustrophobia now, Gordon?"

Gordon considered the question. "Nah. But I might stay out of tight spaces for a few days, anyway."

Virgil snorted, and Scott shook his head. "Yeah, about that," Virgil began.

And as he looked at his older brothers' faces, Gordon knew that they had begun to move past relief mode and into lecture mode.

Oh well. He'd let them rant for a little while, and then he'd give them puppy dog eyes and be off the hook.

He glanced back toward the collapsed tunnel and shivered very slightly. He didn't need a lecture – he'd learned his lesson.


	3. Trapped

_Warning – if you are severely claustrophobic, this chapter might make you very, very twitchy…_

Scott sighed and tried to stretch his legs in the little janitor's closet. There was instant cacophony as his movement tipped over a mop and several brooms; in trying to catch them, he bumped a metal bucket off the shelf with his elbow and sent it clattering to the floor. He caught all the brooms except for one, which tipped over and rapped against a metal heat duct, sending a tremendous, echoing clang reverberating through the tiny room.

Virgil's eyebrows rose. "Well, that was…entertaining," he said mildly.

"What's keeping Gordon and Alan?" Scott growled, staring suspiciously at the walls on either side – was it just him, or were they getting closer? He tried to ignore the sensation, and instead focused on returning the brooms and mop to their original state of precarious balance.

"Oh, I don't know…maybe they're _rescuing_ people?" Virgil suggested. "Relax, Scott. They know we're here, and they'll get us out as soon as they can. Hey, I know – I'll tell a story this time. This is one that I don't think you've heard – at least, you _shouldn't_ have."

This time Scott's eyebrows went up. "Really? And why is that?"

"I traded ice cream – _lots_ of ice cream – for a certain pair of younger brothers' silence."

Scott stared at him. "Then why are _you_ telling me now?"

Virgil shrugged. "Well, it's been long enough now since it happened that you're not too likely to go all Smother Hen on me."

"Me? Smother Hen? I don't know what you're talking about," Scott huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

Virgil rolled his eyes. "Anyway…so, I don't remember where you were, but I do know that you were off the island for a couple days. I was working in Two…"

 **Trapped**

It was a problem when Thunderbird Two's cabin heater filter needed to be replaced – and not just because things got a little chilly in the upper atmosphere when the heater was on the fritz.

No, the real problem was getting to the filter in order to change it.

Virgil unlatched the access panel and looked at the twenty-four inch wide opening that he had to try to squeeze into. The filter was located three feet inside the passageway, which meant that he had to try to get his head and shoulders into that space – while still retaining enough mobility to use a screwdriver.

For all of Brains', well, _brains_ , every great once in a while, he somehow managed to completely miss the obvious, such as making a passageway large enough for Two's primary mechanic to comfortably fit inside.

"Should've grabbed Alan," Virgil grumbled. "Or even Gordon." He paused briefly to consider calling one of them, but then shrugged – it'd be faster to change the filter himself than to wait for one of his brothers to come all the way down to the hangar. He'd just be a little squished for a couple minutes; he could handle that.

Virgil stood considering the passageway for another moment, thinking through his plan of action. It occurred to him that the shoulder piece of his sash might not fit inside, so he removed his sash and set it aside.

He propped open the hatch door and pushed the screwdriver and the new filter into the hole.

"Okay, here goes," he muttered. He took a deep breath and let it out, then bent over and slithered into the narrow passageway, his arms stretched out in front of him.

He was pleased to discover that, by lying kind of tilted on his side, he could use both hands to work on removing the old filter and installing the new one. The awkward angle meant that he had to pause to rest his arms occasionally, but after just five minutes, he was done.

He had propped the old filter up against the wall of the passageway; as he reached for it, it tipped over. A little wave of dust billowed up in his face, and he sneezed, dropping his screwdriver. He groaned as he heard it rolling away, and he hurriedly crawled after it – the last thing he wanted was a random tool rattling around in the guts of his ship during a flight.

He reached for the screwdriver, but in the dim lighting, he misjudged the distance, and he just barely touched it with the tips of his fingers. The movement sent it skittering back along the metal floor, and with a huff of irritation, he slithered further in.

 _Just a bit more_ , he thought, stretching his arm as far as he could reach. One more wiggle brought him forward the necessary six inches, and he finally felt his fingers close around the screwdriver – just as his foot slipped and kicked something.

There was a sharp _snap_ , a metallic clang, and then Virgil was plunged into darkness.

He froze.

"Uh oh…"

That sound had been the access panel closing…and the latch was on the outside.

 _Please don't be latched…please don't be latched…please don't be latched!_

He hastily backed up until he could feel the small metal door against the bottoms of his feet, but a couple solid kicks confirmed his worst fears. It had latched. And, in another of his slightly unusual decisions, Brains had given that little, relatively unimportant door a latch that could probably withstand the apocalypse.

There were days that Virgil loved the way Brains overbuilt things…and then sometimes there were these kinds of days.

Virgil let his head drop down onto his outstretched arms with a soft _thunk_.

 _Okay,_ he thought. _Now what?_

His first instinct was to reach for the IR symbol on his sash and call for help…but he curtailed that movement when he remembered that he had taken the sash off before entering the tunnel.

His mind scrambled for other options – and came up entirely blank. He had no tools except for the screwdriver, and he didn't see how that would do him any good, since the passageway was too narrow for him to turn around, and it was too dark to see what he was doing, anyway. He had no radio, no flashlight, no food, no water…

He winced as another thought occurred to him – what if they got a rescue call?

On the plus side, a call would force his brothers to find him, but he hated to think of the delay that would cause in the rescue.

He wiggled around, trying to ignore the way his shoulders brushed the walls and the fact that he couldn't pull his arms back to his sides.

Hmm…were there any other panels that he could open to at least let in some light? He tried to remember the layout of the passageway, but after a minute, he shook his head. As far as he could recall, there were only a few more things in the passageway that opened, and they were all closed off from the main part of the ship.

The longer he thought about his situation, the more he became convinced that he wasn't going to be able to get himself out of the tunnel – all he could do was try his best to relax and wait for his brothers to find him. He grimaced as his stomach growled. Hopefully that wouldn't take _too_ long…

He used his arms as a pillow and let out a long sigh. Well, it was kind of nice to get a few minutes' rest, he told himself. He'd been working twelve-hour days lately, and he really was tired…

Virgil suddenly started awake. He blinked groggily, wondering when he had fallen asleep, and why he had awakened in the middle of the night. At least, he thought it must be nighttime, because it was pitch black in his room. But why was he lying on his stomach, why did his bed feel so hard, and why was he stiff and sore?

He tried to roll over, planning to check his alarm clock – and his elbow banged painfully against something metal.

For a split second, Virgil panicked, utterly disoriented and feeling completely trapped. He thrashed around wildly for a moment, trying to free himself, before he remembered where he was and made himself hold still.

His breathing was harsh and loud in the narrow space, and he could hear his heart thundering.

It was a couple minutes before he could bring himself to relax again. He slowly twisted himself around until he was lying on his side, appreciating the change of position – he could even pull his arms down closer to his sides and bend his legs a tiny bit.

He let out a frustrated sigh, wondering how long he'd been trapped. If his raging thirst and grumbling stomach were any indication, it had been a while. This was _so_ not cool.

With no way to track the time, he didn't know whether it was minutes later or hours later that he heard voices in the outer room. His heart leaping in excitement, he let out a shout and started to sit up.

A loud clang, a fierce burst of pain, and a brilliant flash of stars reminded him that the ceiling was only inches over his head. He fell back with a groan, hands clutched to his head.

The hatch door opened with a little creaking sound, and fresh air flowed into the passageway.

"Virg, what in the world?" Gordon's voice echoed oddly in the narrow space.

"Hey, Gords," Virgil said, trying – and failing – to twist around so that he could see his brother. "Uh, can you help me out of here, please?"

Virgil was half expecting the teasing to begin right away, but something in his voice must have tipped Gordon off that his brother really was suffering, because there were no clever comments before strong hands grabbed Virgil's ankles and pulled.

The hole was at about waist height, so after a moment, Virgil had to twist around so that he was on his stomach again. His feet touched the floor, and he backed out of the hole, straightening up with a wince.

And then the next thing he knew, he was sitting down on the floor, and Gordon's arm was around him, his concerned face only a few inches away. Alan was crouched next to Gordon, his blue eyes worried.

"Virg," Gordon repeated. " _What_ in the _world_?"

"I, uh, I got stuck," Virgil said, blinking at the brightness of the room and fighting back a slightly queasy sensation as the room seemed to spin around him. "A while ago, I think. What time is it, anyway?"

"It's after seven in the evening," Gordon said. "We went looking for you when you didn't show up for supper. What time did you get stuck?"

Virgil grimaced. "Changing the filter was the first thing on my to-do list this morning, so probably about eight or eight-thirty." His mind was beginning to clear; he figured his collapse had probably been due to a combination of low blood sugar, dehydration and being stuck in one position for so long. He cautiously pushed himself back up to a standing position, aware that Gordon's hands were following him up, and was pleased when he only felt a tiny bit light-headed.

"You good?" Gordon asked, his hands still hovering nearby, his face unusually sober.

"Yeah, I think so," Virgil said. "Just thirsty. And really, really hungry."

As they moved from the hangar up into the house, one brother on either side of Virgil – probably in case he got dizzy again – Gordon finally started to laugh.

"Man, wait until Scott hears about this," he chortled.

Virgil winced. "You know, I'm not sure that Scotty needs to know what happened today," he said. "How about a deal?"

Alan brightened. "Ice cream?"

" _Lots_ of ice cream," Gordon added, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

And as Virgil looked down at them and thought about how he'd still be stuck in that ridiculous, dark, claustrophobic tunnel if it weren't for them, it occurred to him that he should be offering them ice cream as a reward rather than as a bribe. Not that he'd ever tell them that, though. He smiled. "Okay, ice cream it is."


	4. Crawlspace

By the end of the story, Scott was sitting on the edge of his bucket, his shoulders a taut line, his hands clenched into fists. "Did they check you for a head injury?" he demanded. "You didn't have any rescues that night, did you?"

Virgil rolled his eyes. "See, this is why I didn't tell you sooner. This happened, like, three months ago. And I didn't need to be checked for a head injury – it was just a little bump."

Scott sat back, glowering. "Well, they should have checked anyway."

"Whatever," Virgil said. "So, that was _my_ embarrassing story. You got any good ones?"

Scott sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, wishing he didn't have to keep his movements so small. "Uh, I don't know…"

"You've never been stuck before?" Virgil pushed.

"Well, I'm sure I have, but I don't remember a specific…oh, wait. There _was_ this one time – actually, you'll remember this one…"

 **Crawlspace**

The rescue was almost over when a little boy approached Scott, tugging at his sash to get his attention.

"Hey, you," the boy said.

Scott glanced down at him, and then looked around for a parent. No one else was in sight except for a girl, even younger than the boy, standing a few feet away. "Hey, buddy," he said. "Where are your parents? Are you lost?" The area had been evacuated a few hours earlier, and was _supposed_ to be clear of civilians.

"No, we're just trying to rescue our dog," the boy told him. "Mom's at the school, and Dad's stuck at work. You're a rescue guy, right?"

"That's right," Scott said, trying not to smile. "But I'm afraid you'll have to look for your dog later – it's not safe for you to be out here without an adult."

"But you're an adult," the boy challenged.

"Well, yes, but I'm busy," Scott said. He gestured to the little girl. "C'mon, Sweetie, I'll take you two back to your mom."

To his dismay, though, the little girl responded by sticking her lower lip out and beginning to sniffle. "But – but – what about Bear? He's scared, and Ethan said you could help us get him out!" Big, fat tears began to roll down her cheeks.

Ethan rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, "Oh, boy, see what you did? Now she's crying!" He eyed Scott. "She won't stop until we find Bear, either."

Scott had the distinct feeling that he was being played – he'd had enough experience with younger siblings to recognize the signs – but somehow, he couldn't stop the words from coming out. "How far is it to your house?" Oh, man…he was going to regret that, he just knew it.

Sure enough, Ethan's face lit up with a huge grin, and he grabbed Scott's hand, tugging him down the street. "It's just over here," he said. "It's not far. C'mon, Emma!"

And the tears magically disappeared as Emma skipped merrily after them down the debris-strewn road.

A tornado had struck the kids' small town in the central United States early that morning, ravaging a few blocks of the residential area. The house the children led Scott to was still standing – mostly, anyway. It had a decided lean to it, and it gave a creak and a moan as they approached, settling a bit on its foundation.

Scott grumbled under his breath as he studied the house.

If anyone directly asked a member of International Rescue whether they saved animals, the response would be an immediate and definite, "No, it's against our policy." But at most rescue scenes, a large number of animals somehow ended up reunited with their owners.

And as Scott looked down at the two hopeful faces pointed in his direction, he knew that he was going to be breaking the rule again today.

"Bear's in there?" he clarified.

"Actually, he's under the house," Ethan said. "I was holding the leash, but he pulled and got away, and he ran underneath. He likes to hide under there."

"Aha," Scott said, studying the narrow crawl space that was accessible from under the porch. "Of course that's where he is." He glanced at the kids and sighed. "Okay, I'll give it a try." He held up a hand to forestall their excited yells. " _But_ I need you two to promise me that you'll stay far away from the house. Stay right here in this spot. All right? Ethan, I'm counting on you to watch out for your sister, okay, buddy?"

Ethan nodded seriously, putting his arm around Emma's shoulders. "Yes, sir."

"Good man," Scott said. As he moved toward the house, he touched the comm. symbol on his sash. "Thunderbird Five, come in."

"Go ahead, Thunderbird One," John said.

"Hey, John, I'm about to pull a Fido here," he said, using the brothers' unofficial code name for an animal rescue. "Can you get in touch with a parent for me? The address is 905 Wilder Avenue, and I've got Ethan and Emma here with me. I'll bring them back to the school once we've got the pooch."

John chuckled. "Will do. Watch out for its teeth."

"I'll try," Scott said dryly. "Wish we could explain to the animals that we're just trying to help. Anyway, thanks, John."

"Anytime," John said.

With a quick glance backward to make sure the kids were obeying his order to stand still, Scott dropped to his stomach and slithered into the crawl space, grimacing as he immediately had to brush away a sheet of cobwebs from his face.

He fished a flashlight from his pocket and shone it around under the house, smiling in satisfaction as a pair of eyes in the far corner reflected the light. "Hey, pooch," he said softly. "C'mere – it's okay." Remembering the dog's name, he added, "C'mon, Bear. I'm here to help."

The dog – a Black Lab – watched, panting and trembling, as Scott belly-crawled closer, keeping his head low to avoid hitting it on the heavy floor joists. Scott kept up a constant, soothing murmur as he moved – Labs were not known for being aggressive, but one never knew how a scared, cornered dog was going to react.

Finally he was within touching distance. He stopped and studied the dog, watching for any signs that it was likely to snap at him.

After a moment, the tip of the dog's tail twitched, and he wiggled forward, sniffing Scott's face.

"There's a good boy," Scott said, petting the dog.

Bear's tail thumped against the side of the foundation, and he crawled closer.

Scott gently grabbed the dog's collar and pulled him forward. Bear hesitated for a moment, then followed, awkwardly slithering through the soft sand beside Scott.

When they were about halfway to the opening, Bear surged forward; Scott grabbed for the dog's collar, but missed, and Bear disappeared into the fresh air outside.

He heard the kids' excited cries, along with a few happy barks.

"Bear!" Ethan exclaimed.

"He's okay! Aw, Bear, I love you!"

"Thanks, Mister!"

And then Scott heard the patter of little feet running away down the street. He opened his mouth to shout for them to wait for him – he was almost out, and he wanted to escort them back to the school – but then there was an ominous rumble from the house over him, and he gulped back the words in favor of crawling faster.

He wasn't fast enough.

An unearthly groan sounded from over his head, and then there was a loud _crack_ , and suddenly something dropped down onto Scott's shoulder with enough force to smack him face down into the dirt.

Between the pressure on his shoulder and the dust filtering down all around him, he could hardly breathe for a minute. He tried to shield his face, but he sucked up a mouthful of sand and ended up in a long fit of coughing, wincing as the movement made pain pulse through his shoulder. Something thudded heavily onto the sand a few feet away.

Things settled down after a couple minutes, and Scott cautiously raised his head, blinking away the gritty sensation in his eyes.

He winced as the pressure on his left shoulder resolved into a throbbing pain, biting into each breath that he took. He tried to twist around to see what had fallen on him, but it was pinning him down tightly enough that he could hardly move. If he had to guess, though, he'd say that it was one of the heavy floor joists – and that it probably had other debris on top of it, too, adding to its weight.

The end of the beam was sitting squarely on top of his sash, and it occurred to him that that was probably the only reason the force of the blow hadn't broken his shoulder blade.

He spent the next five minutes trying to free himself. Pushing up against the beam didn't work – it hurt too much – and he couldn't wiggle sideways either. He briefly tried digging his way out, but as the loose sand began to give way underneath him, the beam dropped down further with a crunching sound, and Scott let out an involuntary cry as white-hot pain blazed through his shoulder.

"Okay," he muttered. "Guess it's time to call in the cavalry."

He reached for the IR symbol on his chest…and then grimaced as he realized that he couldn't get to it – it was directly underneath the beam that was pinning him to the ground.

"Great…now what?" he growled.

At least John knew where Scott was, but how long would it take him to notice that he hadn't checked in for a while? And once he figured out that something was wrong, how long would it take Virgil to get across town to lend him a hand?

The house let out another long, drawn-out moan overhead, and another joist thudded down in the far corner of the crawlspace.

"Okay," he said. "Maybe I can dig out just enough sand to be able to reach my communicator…"

The mechanics of digging without being able to lift his left shoulder from the ground proved to be challenging, but Scott eventually figured out how to make it work. Unfortunately, the movement stirred up plenty of dust right in his face, which started him coughing again.

But after a couple minutes of work, he was finally able to wiggle his fingers down his sash far enough to touch the IR symbol.

"Thunderbird Five, come in please," he said.

A second later, John replied, but Scott frowned as he realized that he could barely hear his brother – the speaker was muffled by the sand.

He dug out a little more around the speaker, then said, "John, I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can, I could use a hand here – I'm stuck under this house, and it sounds like it could come down completely any time now."

There was another faint, garbled response, and Scott sighed, dropping his head down onto his arm, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to try again. He decided that it probably wasn't. John might not have been able to understand Scott's words, but he at least knew that there was a problem, and he'd doubtless send Virgil to investigate.

So now it was just a matter of waiting.

Oh, boy… _waiting._ Scott's favorite. _Not_.

"Stupid dog," he muttered. He didn't mean it, of course, but it felt good to say it.

It took fifteen long minutes before Virgil darkened the entrance to the crawl space.

"Scott? You in here?" Virgil called.

"Yeah, I'm here," Scott replied, trying not to sound too grumpy. "You might have to take your sash off to fit through that opening."

"Yeah, no kidding," Virgil muttered, grunting as he crawled through the hole. He shone a flashlight toward Scott and let out a low whistle. "Wow, when you get stuck, you sure do it right. I think that's one of the main support beams for the whole house."

Scott sighed. "So if I move, the whole thing's coming down?"

"Well, not necessarily, but it is a possibility." He grimaced as he studied Scott's position. "Okay, I'm gonna need a jack," he said. "A really, really strong jack. I'll be back in a couple minutes, okay? Don't go anywhere."

"Oh, ha, ha, very funny, Virg," Scott growled. "Keep making jokes like that, and you'll give Gordon a run for his money."

Virgil slithered back out through the opening and disappeared from sight, leaving Scott alone again.

Great – more waiting.

Ten minutes later, Virgil slid back through the hole, shoving a jack and a solid chunk of wood in front of him. He crawled forward, flashlight clenched in his teeth, and dumped his gear next to Scott.

Pulling the light from his mouth and propping it up in the sand, he glanced at his older brother. "Holding up okay?" he asked solicitously.

Before Scott had a chance to reply, the corners of Virgil's mouth twisted in a smirk, and he added, "Because you are holding up an awful lot right now, you know – a whole house, as a matter of fact."

Scott groaned. "Just shoot me now. Put me out of my misery. And remind me to give you a different copilot, if this is the result of you being exposed to Gordon's terrible jokes for all these years."

"Eh, it was more of a pun than a joke," Virgil countered, setting the board on the ground near Scott's left elbow and putting the jack on top of it. "Seriously, though, are you okay? Anything broken?"

"You mean besides my pride?" Scott asked dryly.

Just then a rumble sounded from overhead, and the whole house lurched slightly. The beam jolted down against Scott's shoulder like a pile driver, and he grunted involuntarily as the air was pressed from his lungs – then gasped as the pain registered.

Dust was drifting through the air again; he heard Virgil cough, and felt his brother's hand grab hold of his arm.

"You okay, Scott?" Virgil choked out.

Scott tried to answer, but every time he opened his mouth, he found that he couldn't push the words past the tickle in his throat. He coughed and nodded, hoping that Virgil could see the movement.

"All right, that's enough of that," Virgil said, his voice firm and resolved. "Let's get you out of here!" He started pumping the jack up into position, grumbling about the low ceiling and awkward angle.

Scott could tell when the jack made contact with the beam – the pressure on his shoulder began to lift, just a tiny bit at a time, and the wood overhead creaked and groaned, the sound drowning out Virgil's grunts as it became harder to pump.

After a minute Virgil asked, "You free yet?"

Scott wiggled around. "Just a bit more," he said.

Virgil heaved at the jack with all his strength, each pump delivering a fierce crunchfrom above as the beam was raised a tiny bit higher.

A few seconds later, Scott finally felt like he could properly inflate his left lung. "Okay," he gasped. He tried to slide to the side, and was glad when Virgil grabbed his arm and helped him – his left arm didn't seem to be doing much good.

He took a deep breath, and pain seared through his upper back. "Thanks," he said through gritted teeth. "Now, can we–"

"Yeah," Virgil agreed. He grabbed Scott's sash and dragged him toward the opening.

Scott helped as much as he could, but his entire left side seemed more or less uncooperative, so he mostly ended up being pulled by Virgil the whole way.

The house was grumbling and groaning again, filling the pit of Scott's stomach with dread, and making him want to shout, "Hurry!" But he didn't, because he knew that Virgil knew, and that his younger brother was already hurrying.

And then they were at the opening, and Virgil was unceremoniously stuffing Scott through the hole first, crawling out right at his heels.

They'd just made it out from under the porch when the house sagged and moaned, settling down onto its foundation with an almighty _crack_ that echoed through the quiet residential neighborhood like a gunshot. They could hear the thuds of more floor joists dropping down onto the sandy floor of the crawlspace and the clatter of household possessions and furniture shifting around.

Scott slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing as the movement tugged at the huge sore spot centered over his left shoulder blade. He looked at Virgil. "Thanks, Virg," he said fervently.

Virgil stood and held a hand down to Scott, pulling him to his feet. "Hey, no problem," he said. "Always glad to save a brother who's just risked his life rescuing a _dog_." He shot Scott a hard glance.

"Hey, now, easy there," Scott said. "You didn't have to look into the eyes of those two little kids and tell them, 'Sorry, we don't rescue pets.' You would've caved even _before_ the little girl turned on the waterworks."

"Yeah, well," Virgil blustered. He floundered for words, but he couldn't come up with anything else, so he grinned instead. "Okay, yeah, whatever. Anyway, you're welcome."

The house gave one last groan as they walked away, and Scott shivered ever so slightly, glad he had a brother always ready to help him out of a tight spot.


	5. Chute

"Well, at least you didn't tell Gordon about that," Scott said. "I wouldn't ever have heard the end of it – getting stuck under a house while rescuing a dog!"

"Oh, no, I told him," Virgil said calmly. "I mean, your arm was in a sling for a week – of course he wanted to know what had happened."

Scott's eyebrows rose. "Then why hasn't he ever given me a hard time about it?"

Virgil shrugged. "Who knows? He's probably saving it for blackmail, or something. But now that you know that he knows, but he doesn't know that you know that he knows, maybe you can turn things around on him."

Scott blinked. "Whoa, Virg…"

Just then, John's hologram blinked to life in the middle of the tiny janitor's closet, casting a faint blue glow over the mops and buckets and rows of spare toilet paper rolls. "How are you guys holding up?" he asked, sounding much calmer than he had a little while earlier.

"We're good," Virgil said. "Just chilling and telling stories to pass the time."

"But we still want out," Scott clarified, concerned that Virgil had sounded a little _too_ relaxed.

"Don't worry – I've got Gordon and Alan headed your way now. It'll take them about fifteen minutes to reach your position."

"Hey, perfect!" Virgil exclaimed. "Just enough time for another story. John, did you ever tell Scott about the time you got stuck in–"

"Virgil, no!" John snapped. "I have not told _anyone_ about that – _ever_ – and with very good reason. That was humiliating, and I try not to even think about it!"

"Aw, come on, Johnny – we're suffering in here! It's been a long day, and we're tired, and we just want to get home…and you're telling us you won't even help us out a little?"

Scott watched with a smirk as Virgil turned the full force of his puppy-dog chocolate-brown eyes on John – and, to Scott's amazement, it worked.

John hemmed and hawed, then said, very grudgingly, "Okay, _fine._ But then we forget about it again, okay? No more mention of it from this day forward."

"Deal," Virgil said promptly.

"So, this was, what, like, a year ago? Anyway, I had gone on a rescue with Virgil, and I realized late that night that I had left my personal computer on Two..."

 **Chute**

John grumbled under his breath as he looked under the couch cushions, on the countertop, and in the reading nook. He couldn't find his computer anywhere – and he had been right in the middle of a fascinating chapter on a new approach to helioseismology when the rescue call had come in.

He stood in the middle of the lounge and tried to mentally retrace his footsteps from quite a few hours earlier. They had received the call, and he had stood up…but what had he done with his computer?

Oh, right – he had tucked it under his arm. And, having forgotten that he was still holding onto it, he had carried it with him onto Two. Now he remembered tucking it into one of the lockers on the big ship.

He waffled, trying to decide just how badly he wanted to finish that chapter – it was a bit of a hike all the way down into the hangar.

But what if he could take a shorter journey? He turned his gaze toward the painting of a rocket over by the reading nook. _That_ would shorten the trip, _and_ – he allowed himself a quick, mischievous smile – it would also be a lot more fun than taking the elevator or the stairs.

Decision made, he headed for the painting. There was a discreet switch next to it that he flicked to the "off" position – the last thing he needed was a robotic system trying to stuff his long limbs into Virgil's uniform.

He stepped onto the base of the painting, and grinned at the odd sensation of tipping backwards. He slid down into place under the shoulder pieces – which he suspected fit Virgil quite a bit more snugly – and the platform started rolling, zipping downhill on its narrow track.

 _Wow, this is fast_ , he thought, somewhere between thrilled and alarmed.

He couldn't quite figure out where to put his hands, though – they seemed to overhang the spot they ought to go. As he tried to wiggle into place, something suddenly grabbed the loose sleeve of his button-up shirt and yanked his arm violently down toward the track.

Startled, he fought the pull; there was a sharp ripping sound, and the sleeve tore all the way up his arm, the fabric of the seam tightening around his shoulder. With a harsh judder, the platform jerked to a halt, throwing John painfully back against the metal framework.

The lights in the chute flickered once, twice, and then faded to their dim emergency settings.

John lay still for a minute and blinked, trying to catch his breath and figure out what could have possibly gone wrong. Finally, he turned his head to the side and groaned when he realized what had happened – somehow, the sleeve of his shirt had gotten caught between the platform and the track, jamming it. The sleeve had torn – and thank _goodness_ for that, otherwise John's arm might have gotten pulled under the platform as well.

He seemed to have engaged some sort of automatic shutoff mode as well, hence the emergency lighting.

Hmm. How was he supposed to get back to the top?

He tugged experimentally at his sleeve, but it was definitely stuck fast – and it was pinning his shoulder to the platform, too, that one seam apparently much stronger than the rest of the sleeve. In fact, it had a bit of a death grip on his shoulder, and he was already beginning to feel some tingles in his fingertips.

Okay. Time to use his highly refined sense of order to set some priorities.

Priority number one: remove arm from remnants of sleeve.

A minute later, he decided that this was easier said than done. He'd first tried pulling the material apart, but it refused to yield.

 _Serves me right for refusing to buy anything other than high-quality clothing_ , he thought.

Next he searched his pockets for anything he could use to cut the material, but he came up empty-handed – he really wasn't the type to carry a pocket knife or a multi-tool. Ask any of his brothers for a knife, and their faces would light up. They'd fish around in a pocket for a second, then whip out a huge pocket knife, opening it for John, as if he wasn't qualified to do so himself. "Careful," they'd say. "It's sharp."

Unfortunately, none of his brothers was trapped with him in his ridiculous predicament, so there would be no offers of excessively large blades.

He lay back on the platform with a huff and held perfectly still for a full minute, just thinking. And the longer he thought, the angrier he became.

"Okay," he snapped. "This is _stupid_. You are a fit, strong _man_. You spend your days – and plenty of your nights – organizing the rescue of dozens of people all across the globe. You are disciplined and you have phenomenal self control. You can break a silly piece of cloth with your bare hands."

He twisted back up into a semi-sitting up position, grabbed the fabric with his left hand, and pulled with all of his strength. And he pulled…and he pulled.

And then he fell back with a growl of frustration.

"No," he said, his despair complete. "I can't do it." He flopped his left arm over his face. "I am never going to live this down." Hey, there was kind of an echo in the chute. "Ever," he said loudly, listening to the word reverberate down the long tunnel.

Then he shook himself and pulled his focus back to the matter at hand. Right. Working on getting out so that Virgil's crazy roller-coaster of a chute didn't become his tomb.

He could just picture the archaeologists, a thousand years in the future, poking at his desiccated carcass, making note of the cause of death and clucking their tongues sadly. "Young, healthy male," they'd say. "He's trapped, but it seems odd that he wasn't able to pull himself free. Poor kid starved to death right here."

John's stomach rumbled at that moment, and he remembered that he'd been planning to get a snack to eat while reading the rest of that chapter. Hmm, his book…he wished he had it now – if he was going to be stuck for a while, it'd be nice to have something to read.

Okay.

Refocusing – _again_.

All right, so he had thoroughly established that he was unable to complete his number one priority, namely that of extricating himself from his shirt, so… _wait_. Wait. _Hold everything_ , as Gordon would say.

There was one thing that John hadn't tried.

And suddenly he was very glad that he was alone in the chute, with no knife-brandishing brothers in sight as he unbuttoned his shirt and slipped out of it.

It still took a little tugging to get his arm out of the damaged sleeve, but in a matter of seconds, he had rendered his entire struggle up to that point null and void.

He sat up, feeling the pull of gravity in his abs because of the awkward angle of the platform. He glanced up, and figured he was probably about halfway down the chute. It crossed his mind that he didn't even know whether the painting of the rocket opened from this side, so perhaps he should try to go down the chute instead of up.

But…what would happen when he got to the bottom? Without the platform, the loading arm into Thunderbird Two probably wouldn't engage, so John would end up stranded high above the hangar floor.

Okay…number two priority: figure out whether to go up or down.

He sighed. All he wanted was his computer and a snack, and here he was, in the guts of the chute system, hopelessly stuck.

"Hey, John?"

John glanced down at his wrist, a distant part of his mind noting that Virgil's voice echoed nicely in the chute too.

Aha. He had his communicator watch on. He briefly debated telling Virgil about his problem, but quickly decided that he'd rather see if he could somehow avoid getting teased for the rest of his life.

"Yes, Virgil?" he replied casually. _Keep it cool. Don't let on that anything's wrong._ "Can I help you?"

"What's wrong with _you_?" Virgil demanded.

John tried to sound surprised. "What do you mean?"

"You're using your 'Nothing's Wrong' voice, which means that something's _very_ wrong. And did I hear an echo? Where are you?"

"Nowhere," John said quickly. "I mean, uh, I'm somewhere that echoes. Like, uh, my bathroom. Yeah, I'm in my bathroom, so if you could give me a little privacy here, I'd appreciate it."

"Uh, yeeaah, sure," Virgil replied. "Right. I'll call you back later, then, since you're in your _bathroom_."

"Oh, wait…Virgil?"

"Yes, John?"

"Hypothetically speaking, does your chute entrance open from the inside? _Not_ that that has any relevance whatsoever to me, in any way, shape or form. It just…uh, crossed my mind at some point today, and I thought I'd ask you the next time I talked to you."

"Uh, yeah, it does, actually. You know Brains – builds everything with safety in mind."

"Thanks, Virg. You've been a huge help – uh, I mean, that really takes a load off my mind. In case you were ever to get stuck down here- _there_ , I mean. Down there. In your chute. Like, say, if something jammed in the track and your platform stopped moving. It's nice to know that you could get back out again. Anyway, I'm in my bathroom, so I'd better go now." John ended the connection before Virgil could reply.

 _Good grief – you sounded like Alan_ , he told himself.

Okay. So he could climb up the chute and get out.

But…what about the platform? What if they got another rescue tonight and Virgil needed it? He could even get hurt if the painting of the rocket tipped him over and the platform wasn't there to catch him.

And whenever Virgil crawled down here to fix the platform, John's tattered shirt tangled in the track would be a bit of a giveaway as to who was responsible.

John cautiously stepped off the platform onto the curved floor of the chute and crouched down to peer at the way the shirt sleeve was attached. Hmm…it looked like if he could just lift the platform up a bit and pull, then…yes! He had successfully removed the shirt.

He set the platform back down onto its track – and then leaped forward to catch it when it started to trundle away down toward the hangar. It was heavy enough that it dragged him a few feet, bouncing him painfully over the ridges on the floor, but he eventually pulled it to a stop.

Panting, he maneuvered himself around to the front of the platform so that he could brace it with all of his body weight.

He stood there for a full five minutes, wondering how he was possibly going to solve everything with his dignity intact. Finally, though, with slumped shoulders, he activated his watch. "Hey, Virg?" he said quietly.

"Yeah, Johnny, what's up?"

"Uh, well, so, I'm not actually in my bathroom," he said guiltily. "I'm in your chute, and I could use a hand."

There was a click at the top of the chute, and suddenly all the lights turned back on. He could hear Virgil's voice echoing down from above and through his watch as his brother clumped his way down the narrow passage.

"I know, John," Virgil said. "You may be a genius, but you're no good at subterfuge."

He appeared around the curve, a slight smirk on his face – a smirk that faded to a frown as he bent over to pick up the mangled shirt. He glanced at the ripped sleeve and then looked over at John's arm. "You okay?"

John nodded. "Miraculously, yes."

Virgil didn't say anything else; he just came around to the bottom end of the platform and helped John push it all the way up to the top, where it clicked neatly into place.

John squeezed gratefully out into the lounge, taking a long, deep breath. Somehow the air seemed fresher and sweeter out here.

Virgil followed him out, an interesting mix of expressions covering his face.

He still hadn't said anything else – perhaps because there simply were no words, John thought morosely.

The painting snapped shut behind Virgil, and suddenly John remembered the reason for his ordeal.

"My computer!" he said. "I left it in Two earlier." He eyed the chute entrance warily. If he left the shirt in the lounge…

Virgil held up a hand. "Allow me," he said, stepping onto the bottom of the painting.

 **Conclusion**

They could hear Gordon and Alan working on breaking down the door into the janitor's closet by the time John finished speaking.

John heard them too; he gave a gasp and disappeared.

He reappeared just as quickly to say, "Tell them, and I'm taking over Autopilot on both of your Birds during the next test flight!"

And then his hologram blipped out of sight again.

Scott and Virgil looked at each other.

"We really shouldn't laugh," Scott said reasonably, even as a grin spread slowly across his face. "Poor John could have really been hurt…" By the end of the sentence, he knew it was hopeless.

And when Gordon and Alan finally broke through into the closet a couple minutes later, they found their older brothers limp and helpless with laughter.

"The fumes getting to you or something?" Gordon demanded, half amused and half concerned.

"No," Scott gasped. "It was the – the…" He dissolved into laughter again.

Virgil finished the sentence for him, between deep chuckles. "It was the tight spaces," he said.

Gordon and Alan exchanged a confused glance, then shrugged.


End file.
